


The Gold Mine

by chainofclovers



Category: Grace and Frankie (TV)
Genre: F/F, Post-Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-23 16:50:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18154490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chainofclovers/pseuds/chainofclovers
Summary: Grace doesn’t know how long it’ll last, but every morning since she’s come home, Frankie has made her a smoothie.





	The Gold Mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [veroniquemagique](https://archiveofourown.org/users/veroniquemagique/gifts).



> So, this isn't My Post-S5 _Grace and Frankie_ Fic, but it is *a* post-S5 _Grace and Frankie_ fic. :D 
> 
> Veroniquemagique, I hope you enjoy this story. You deserve nothing but wonderful things for the rest of this year and forever!

Grace doesn’t know how long it’ll last, but every morning since she’s come home, Frankie has made her a smoothie. They’re beautiful smoothies, too, with none of the usual Frankie-in-the-kitchen randomness. None of the purple-brown sludge you get when you add spinach and too many blueberries. No bagels trying to be donuts. One morning, Grace comes downstairs to a clean blender already resting in the drying rack, twin glasses on the counter filled perfectly evenly with something the exact color of mango flesh. Frankie gapes when Grace asks her the flavor. “Grace. Hon. They're mango smoothies. Art imitates life.”

It’s been a few weeks, and Frankie hasn’t missed a morning yet. This morning, it’s storming hard; they’re several days in to a long stretch of rain in the middle of the wettest, coldest San Diego winter Grace can remember. Frankie curls her lips into a knowing half smile when Grace enters the kitchen, probably because Grace looks terrible: rumpled pajamas, messed-up hair, bags under her eyes. She’s fighting a hangover, and hasn’t done anything about her appearance yet. She’s only downstairs because she heard the blender over the sound of the rain.

“Here.” Frankie hands Grace a frosty mason jar with a metal straw sticking out of the top. “I’m considering a second Instagram,” she explains, and takes a sip of her own identical concoction.

The contents of the jar are a pale smooth green, somehow appetizing instead of sickening despite her sour stomach. Frankie looks at Grace looking at the smoothie and fake-quotes her: “‘I left my billionaire husband and all I got was this lousy smoothie.’”

Grace takes a drink. “No, it’s a good smoothie.” She tastes almond butter, maple, cinnamon, cayenne. Avocado for texture and color, a little extra flavor. Enough almond milk and blended ice to keep it from sticking in the straw. Now that she’s tried the smoothie, she notices the smell of coffee, the buoying promise that between breakfast and coffee and a cozy rainy morning, her headache doesn’t stand a chance.

That afternoon, Grace gets an Instagram notification for her personal account even though she hardly ever uses that one. @smoothiesbyfrankieb has tagged @gracephanson in a photo. She’s not actually in the picture; it’s just a photo of the smoothie from this morning, likely taken just a moment before she came downstairs. The photo could be staged better: the lighting isn't great, and there’s a stack of paper in the background. But the profile bio’s interesting: “Smoothies I make for Grace Hanson,” followed by eight sparkling hearts.

—

Grace doesn’t think much of it the first time she walks into the living room and “Heart of Gold” starts to play. She doesn’t pay much mind the second time, either. But from the third occurrence onward, it’s clear Frankie’s got it permanently queued it up on her phone, like she’s Grace’s personal DJ but is capable of playing only one song. “Heart of Gold” is what makes Frankie finally learn how to use the speakers they bought right after moving back in to the beach house, and soon she sends the song through all the common spaces. All the time, it seems, but especially when Grace returns from an errand—working, shopping, divorcing—or comes downstairs for a smoothie or cooks dinner for Frankie. 

“This is getting a little embarrassing,” Grace says. She studiously stirs the pan of broccoli she’s sauteing, giving each piece a fair chance with the olive oil and the hottest part of the burner’s surface. Frankie’s slicing bread, but before picking up the knife she restarted “Heart of Gold” for the fourth or fifth time that evening. Grace hasn’t told her about automatic replay yet; sharing that information seems counter to her own best interests.

Frankie looks up from the cutting board, a hint of alarm on her face. “But you love this song. You told me that once! You said—you said, ‘It’s very harmonica-forward, but I love this song.’”

“I know. I do. It’s still—”

“Embarrassing. I get it.” Frankie doesn’t seem to get it. “I mean, if you think feelings are embarrassing, then yes, this is all very embarrassing.” 

“What feelings?”

“I’ve been in my mind!” Frankie sings, drowning out Neil Young, the hissing from the saute pan, Grace’s question. “It’s such a fine wine!”

“Line,” Grace corrects. “Such a fine line.” 

“Oh. Yeah, I guess that makes more sense. If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.” Grace sang it under her breath in the shower just this morning—against her will, but correctly. She smiles at her perfect little kindergarten class of broccoli. “These are almost ready, okay?”

—

The woman one cash register over keeps looking at Grace, and Grace keeps looking back. Although she’s familiar—part of Babe’s extended circle of friends, someone she used to see at Babe’s parties but for obvious reasons hasn’t run into for at least a couple years—Grace can’t place her name. She wishes she hadn’t agreed to stop at People’s on the way back from an errand in downtown San Diego, because running into half-strangers is the worst. Next time, Frankie can get her by-the-pound lavender bar soap her own damn self. Grace and this woman are probably going to finish running their credit cards at the exact same time, and will walk out together and have to make five minutes of parking lot small talk.

“Grace!” The woman gives a little wave, cocks her head as if to tell Grace she should stop by as soon as she’s done paying. 

The woman’s name comes back at the last possible second: Louise. Louise Miller. Until her retirement, for decades she ran a popular cooperative preschool which both of Frankie’s boys attended. “Louise,” Grace says as she makes her way over, forcing warmth into her voice. “So good to see you.”

They walk outside, Louise with an armload of groceries, Grace with her little bag of soap, a bulk bin trail mix Frankie likes, a birthday card for Sol with a relatively unsentimental message and wildflower seeds in the paper (Sol will have to put in some work to take full advantage of his birthday cheer). Grace should offer to walk Louise to her car so she can put down her load, but with the heavy bag out of her arms they might have to talk forever. They stand by the front doors instead. The sky hints at more rain.

“I hear congratulations are in order.”

Grace goes blank. “Congratulations…?”

Louise flashes a quizzical frown. “Didn’t you get married recently? Did I make that up?”

“Oh—”

Louise laughs. “You know, when I first heard you got married, I assumed you’d married Frankie.”

“Did Babe pay you to say that?” The laughter stops, and Grace immediately regrets saying such a confusing, contextless, bitter thing. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I was just kidding.”

“Well, I’m sure your husband’s glad the rumors weren’t true.”

“I’m not married,” Grace stammers. This is technically false—she’s only a month in to California’s mandatory waiting period between separation and divorce. She’ll be legally married for a long time yet. _You have permanently wounded me_ , Frankie told her on the beach the morning after the wedding, once she got her words back. “Louise, I—it was wonderful to bump into you, but I’m running late.” She doesn’t hug Louise goodbye, doesn’t pat her shoulder, doesn’t turn around to look at her face as she walks away. She’s sweaty and shaky by the time she gets back to the car, stomach sinking like she’s been caught in a lie. 

By the time she gets home, the whole car smells like lavender. Like their house does—parts of it—if Frankie happens to walk past Grace shortly after taking a shower. Like their old apartment in Walden Villas, the smaller square footage making everything linger. Like every hotel room they’ve shared, because Frankie takes this soap with her on trips. She missed it at Nick’s, missed the unexpected familiarity of the scent filling the room, didn’t know she’d missed it until she went back home and smelled the soap on Frankie’s skin. 

“Frankie,” Grace calls as she enters the house through the kitchen door. “I got your soap.” And a surprise, she thinks. Does trail mix count as a surprise?

Frankie responds with “Heart of Gold.” 

The speakers run through WiFi, and anyone connected to the right internet can control them. It takes Grace longer than she’d like to set down her bags, find her phone, open the app, and press pause. She plunges the house into silence. Frankie walks in a second later, visibly startled.

“We have to listen to something else,” Grace says. 

Frankie’s holding her phone, and for a moment it seems like she’ll push play again, that they’ll battle it out in a fit of literal stops and starts. But she sets her phone on the counter instead: a détente. “Why?” She sounds almost guilty.

“It’s all you’ve been listening to. I don’t get it—your tastes are very, um, eclectic, normally, and—” 

“I’m looking for you.” 

“I’m right here!” The words are reflexive, but she means them. “I know I hurt you, but I came back. I’m right here.”

“You’re in the house. Yes.” 

“I hurt you _permanently_. You said it yourself. I don’t know how to make up for that.” 

“A lot of things are permanent,” Frankie says softly. “Life goes on.”

Grace sets her phone down on the counter next to Frankie’s, walks closer. So many memories eventually lose their season, lose their befores and afters. No entrance, no exit, just an isolated moment standing in a kitchen or a living room or an office, frozen in the brain forever. But Grace will always remember this wet winter, the arrival of the song, her own arrival after such a messy departure, all the soap and fruit and avocados and rain sounds, the @smoothiesbyfrankieb feed filling with pictures, all the gestures making up these very nearly good days. 

“I’ll do anything you want,” Grace says. It’s a dangerous thing to promise, though Frankie can’t understand how dangerous. Not yet. _Anything_ is the solution to _nearly_. She doesn’t know what it means, not yet, but it means something good. Something she hasn’t ever given, not completely. Not yet.

“Anything,” Frankie repeats, so quiet it’s not quite a spoken word but an audible thought. 

“Yes,” Grace says, the word fresh as truth. “Anything at all.” 

Frankie’s eyes widen. She opens her mouth, closes it again. Grace guesses what she might say in response. A promise: _I’ll do anything too, just never leave me_. A joke: _I was kidding, but okay!_ A non-sequitur: _What’s for dinner tonight?_

But when Frankie speaks, it’s something else entirely. “I don’t take that for granted,” she says. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to open Spotify and see if they have a ‘This Is Beethoven’ playlist.” 

“Before you go, um—” Why is she nervous? “I got you some trail mix.” She pulls the birthday card from the People’s bag and hands the rest to Frankie, who peers inside.

Frankie chuckles. “Anything _and_ my favorite trail mix.”

“Pretty much.”

Frankie smiles at Grace, the wound a little fainter. Grace smiles back.

— 

The sun returns on Saturday morning. “There’s only one thing for us, Grace,” Frankie says as Grace sets her rinsed smoothie glass (lite coconut milk, frozen pineapple, kale) into the top rack of the dishwasher. Grace jumps; she hadn’t realized Frankie was right behind her. 

“And what is that?” She doesn’t bother to make her voice sound not-tired.

“I think it’s time I taught the open road a thing or two.”

Grace raises her eyebrows.

“You just witnessed an egregious display of bravado,” Frankie immediately explains. “But seriously—I’m gonna be so furious with myself if I never tackle highway driving.”

“You drove us to and from the ashram,” Grace points out. 

“Those highways were small potatoes; I’m talking about conquering the interstate.” Frankie sighs. “Again, the borderline violent language and tone is _entirely_ braggadocio.”

Frankie’s lucky, even if she doesn’t know it: traffic on the 5 is sparse but steady instead of packed and stop-and-start. “Don’t slow down,” Grace says when it’s time for Frankie to merge onto the interstate. “It’s timing out perfectly. Plenty of space.” 

“And ‘perfectly’ is a gross exaggeration, right?”

“No, it’s an accurate description of the amount of space you have. Don’t slow down.” 

Frankie whoops when she’s merged, pedal to the metal. Grace clears her throat. “I might suggest cruise control?”

They drive north for nearly an hour. Grace creates an impromptu obstacle course: _pass that semi and the next two cars, signal to go back to the right lane, select one of the Carlsbad exits_. In Carlsbad, they walk on the boardwalk for a quarter of a mile, then turn around and head back to the car.

“I’m bored,” Frankie says approximately two minutes into the drive home.

“Bored’s better than terrified.”

“In some ways.” They’re quiet for a few moments; Grace keeps thinking Frankie’s about to say something else, so she keeps her mouth shut. “You could touch yourself,” Frankie finally says. “Right now.” Her voice sounds funny, quivery and high, like she’s pretending she just had the idea when she’s actually been deciding whether or not to suggest this since before they left the house. 

_Anything at all_ , Grace hears in her own voice. “People can see in,” she says, but Frankie reaches into the back seat and grabs a soft yellow blanket. Grace takes it from her, eager for Frankie to get two hands on the steering wheel again.

“Not if you have coverage.” Frankie’s voice is steadier now, probably because Grace didn’t refuse outright. “And there isn’t much traffic right now. Totally up to you, though. Seriously.” 

Grace unfolds the blanket slowly, using the time to think. She could regret this; it could make things weird, or Frankie might say she hadn’t actually wanted it to happen, and Grace would never know which part was fake: the suggestion or the retraction. But none of these fears feel like actual possibilities. She tucks the blanket so it’s wedged behind her shoulders and flows down past her lap, loose and non-suspect. 

She glances at Frankie, who clutches the steering wheel with the “I’m driving!” gusto of a bad actor. She told Frankie she’d do the things Frankie wants her to do. So far, in the week since Grace got back from People’s and turned the music off, Frankie’s asked only for simple things—for Grace to read aloud the second half of an article when Frankie’s attention span wasn’t up to the task. For Grace to stay sober because Coyote was bringing a new girlfriend for dinner. For Grace to peruse the internet and come up with a smoothie wish list. It’s heartbreaking and heartwarming to perform these little acts that soothe the surface of the permanent wound. 

The proof of these acts—ask and you shall receive—has changed the structure of their shared logic, changed their argumentative edges, made it clear that Frankie’s only asking for things she truly wants. That’s all the permission Grace needs: a perfectly safe umbrella agreement that includes even ridiculous things, risky things, things she wouldn’t have thought to do on her own. Frankie wants her to do this, and instead of thinking about how incredibly awkward it will be if she comes, and how it might be even more awkward if she doesn’t, she thinks only a few seconds ahead. Doing what Frankie wants always feels good. Grace unbuttons her jeans, unzips the fly, adjusts her hips and seat belt until she’s got an angle she can work with. 

She goes slow. It’s strange, going slow when Frankie’s flying them down the 5 at seventy-two miles per hour. But she has to—there’s no lube, and barely any build-up between Frankie’s request and the start of the action. She rubs herself with two fingers, gets wet as soon as she lets herself imagine what might actually happen: making herself come in this car seat, practically outdoors, the speed and trajectory of the vehicle completely outside her control. In Frankie’s control. 

She closes her eyes for a moment, but opens them almost as soon as she does because she misses the blurred landscape, the awareness of the ocean to her right, the unfurling ribbon of road ahead like an illustration of the pleasure she’ll give herself next. There isn’t much traffic, and she flinches every time a car passes them on the left. Flinches, but doesn’t stop. “It’s okay,” Frankie murmurs, briefly brushing a hand against Grace’s blanket-covered thigh. “Keep going, honey, you’re safe.” Grace wants to ask for the hand to stay there, but she hasn’t completely forgotten that Frankie’s driving, and that driving’s not her strong suit in the most ordinary of times. 

The mile 48 marker flashed in Grace’s vision when she unzipped her jeans, and she touches herself for fourteen miles. “Oh my God” Frankie says after a long stretch of silence, breathing hard. They both are, breathing with something bigger than body plus hand equals pleasure, something big about themselves, the two people in this car. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't keep driving this distracted.” 

Grace comes on the exit 34 ramp, the car slowing down to accommodate the curve, her fingers picking up the flight as the car gives it up. She’s crying out, something she knows because she can hear it, her body reduced to a throat and a hand and an orgasm, her feet pressed against the floor mat. 

Frankie pulls into a Starbucks parking lot. The car shudders to a stop, and so does Grace. The second weekend in a row, she’s sweaty and shaky and slumped in a car, this time with the opposite of the feeling of being caught in a lie. She's too true, too here. She wants to be nothing, quiet and still and unspoken to. Held. Small and held. Frankie looks at her, stricken, serious. Grace glances back, but looks away as she zips her jeans back up with all the dignity she can muster, re-situates her clothes, removes and folds the blanket. Her fingers are sticky. She’s parked in a Starbucks parking lot with Frankie and sex-sticky fingers. “Are you okay?” Frankie asks.

Grace nods. “Yeah,” she says. It’s true, actually, even if there's longing left, longing she seems to have created. She smiles, though she’ll die if Frankie laughs. “I said I’d do anything.” Her face feels hot, but the rest of her is too cold. 

“I’m going to get you coffee. Is that okay? Coffee?”

“I’ll come in with you.” 

She feels stiff on the walk from the parking lot, chilled with no jacket. Frankie seems to sense that Grace’s hand is off-limits and opens the door for her, ushers her inside with a hand against her shoulder. Without talking about it, Frankie goes to the counter and Grace heads to the bathroom. After she uses the toilet, she makes long, dazed eye contact with herself in the mirror while she washes her hands, holding her hands under the hot water for longer than she needs to. She only stops when she remembers the coffee Frankie’s buying her. She’ll welcome the chance to hold something warm, even if she wants to be the warm held thing.

Frankie’s standing by the car already, a coffee cup in each hand. When she sees Grace coming, she sets the coffee on the roof of the vehicle, outstretches her arms. Grace lets herself go into them, feels Frankie make the hug bigger, make herself taller so Grace can rest her head in the crook of her neck. This time, when Grace closes her eyes she keeps them shut. A car door slams nearby, and there are voices in the distance, then closer, then right next to her as people pass them on the way into the Starbucks. With her eyes closed, it doesn’t matter.

“I love you,” Frankie says against the top of Grace’s head. “I should have said so before I asked you to do that. I love you so much.”

It's warm in Frankie's arms. She doesn't have to move. “I know.” 

“Okay, Han Solo. Good talk.” There’s no sting in the words, though. Nothing to indicate the hug or the conversation will end anytime soon.

“I’m not trying to Han Solo you,” Grace says. She looks up, pulling away just enough to see Frankie’s face clearly. “I just—I know. I can feel how much you love me.”

“Good. I’m glad.”

“I love you, too.” She rests her head against Frankie again, feels Frankie sigh happily around her. “I want to go home.”

“Okay.” Frankie squeezes her harder before she lets go.

In an impressive feat of memory, Frankie grabs the coffee from the top of the car. When they’re seated, she unfolds the yellow blanket and wraps it around Grace’s shoulders like a shawl. Grace picks up her coffee from the drink holder; it’s hot through the paper cup, and the first sip almost burns. 

“I’d do anything for you, too,” Frankie says as she pulls out of the parking lot. “And after you help me merge, maybe you can tell me what you think about that.” 

“I want to take a nap when we get home," Grace says immediately. "In my bed. And after I’ve been up there for a minute, you come in and get under the covers, and I’m not surprised at all.” Grace smiles into her cup. There are heavy blankets on the bed, blankets she hardly ever has reason to use. When Frankie comes in and slides under them, she’ll turn around and move closer, sleepy and warm and seeking more warmth. If it feels right, they might kiss—

“Sorry, Frankie,” Grace says. “Merging first, unless you’d rather stay on Del Mar Heights than sleep in my bed.” She lets go of the coffee with one hand, points at the on ramp, and Frankie clicks the turn signal in the right direction.


End file.
